A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(109)

Wreck hated to be photographed, but one day I would see a blurred snapshot of him posing much as he sat before me now. Angelica, on the other hand, loved the camera, and one portrait of her in particular—moping on a swing, smoke cloud wafting to one side—would become famous among American peculiars, framed and hung with pride by some, used as target practice or a wanted poster by others.





Wreck and Angelica were arguing about someone who hadn’t shown up yet—the representative for the Untouchables—and Frankie was refusing to start without him.

“There’s no chance he’s gonna show his hairy mug here,” Wreck said. “Or anywhere else in the city, for that matter.” He had a melodious voice tinged with a light Irish accent.

“I hope he does,” said his gape-mouthed flunkie. “I’ll tie him up and turn him in for the bounty.”

“That, I’d pay to see,” said Angelica. “None of you are getting that bounty, anyhow. Dogface and his clan aren’t afraid of you. Leo and his goons, yes, but not you.” She spoke in a kind of lilting sigh, the sentences starting high and chirpy before fluttering down to the floor.

Wreck glanced at his pocket watch, uncrossed his legs, and stood. “One more minute, Frankie. Then I take my associates and blow.”

“Poop, make him sit!” Frankie shouted.

“Please sit down, Mr. Donovan,” said the tutor.

“I’ll never take orders from someone who lets a child call him names,” said Wreck.

“You’re gonna regret talking about me like that,” Frankie said. “One day, you’re gonna beg for my forgiveness.”

Before their argument could escalate, there was a loud slam from the rear of the theater, a set of double doors swung wide, and a small figure rushed in.

“There he is!” said Frankie. “Told you he’d show.”

He charged down the aisle, peeling off a hat and high-collared coat that had obscured his face. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a high, sharp New York accent. “Traffic was a nightmare!”

He bounded up the steps and into the stage lights, and I was shocked to see that his face—every square inch but his eyeballs and lips—was covered in long, thick fur. This was Dogface, the leader of the Eldritch Street Untouchables, the most despised peculiar clan in New York.

“Dogface!” Wreck shouted. “I truly didn’t think you’d have the stones to show yourself, after the beating we gave you last week.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Dogface replied, licking two fingers and brushing a lock of fur from his eyes. “Funny, I remember three of yours getting carted off to the healer, and only two of mine.”

“I think you forgot how to count,” said Wreck. “Just stay out of my territory, or it won’t be the healer they take you to, it’ll be the deadhouse.”

“Wahh, waah, waah,” the furry boy said, mocking him. “‘Stay out of my territory!’ Someone needs to have his diaper changed.”

Wreck, who had sat down again, jumped out of his chair, but one of his flunkies held him back. Dogface didn’t flinch, chuckling to himself as Wreck made a show of needing to be dragged back to his seat to prevent a brawl.

“I wouldn’t try it,” said Dogface. “I got three boyos waiting with their ears to the door, and if they so much as hear me bark, you’re a dead man.”

“Enough of this tiresome peacocking,” said Angelica, her face placid but her smoke cloud dense and swirling.

“Yes, may we please begin,” said the tutor.

Everyone took a seat. Though the tension between the clan leaders was palpable, their focus gradually returned to my friends and me.

“What have you got for us today, Frankie?” Dogface said. “More rubes from the sticks?”

“I don’t need any more parlor-trick peculiars,” said Wreck. “I want genuine talent this time.”

“Yeah,” said Dogface. “He’s got enough deadweight morons in his crew as it is.”

Wreck shot him a nasty look.

“No, no, these here are the real deal,” said Frankie. “And they’re gonna be real expensive.”

“We’ll see,” said Angelica.





“Only thing I care about is, can they rob?” said Wreck. “I need muscle. I need lookouts.”

“I need chameleons,” said Dogface. “My crew have been getting noticed by normals lately, and we’ve had some close shaves.”

“You could surely use one,” Wreck said, laughing.

“This one’s invisible!” said Frankie. She spun around and poked Millard with her baton, and he squeaked.

We still couldn’t talk.

“Hmm,” said Wreck, drumming his fingers together. “I could be interested . . .”

“They ain’t ugly enough for your crew,” said Dogface. “Better leave ’em to me.”

“I need weatherfolk, as ever,” Angelica said with a sigh. “Wind-shifters, cloud-seeders. Competent ones.”

“All right, talk,” said Frankie, waving her baton in our direction. “Tell ’em what you can do.”

I felt my jaw slacken and my tongue, which had nearly gone numb, suddenly go all pins and needles as the feeling flooded back. It was hard to talk at first. Bronwyn tried to speak, too, but it sounded like we had forgotten how to form consonants.